


Making It Better

by pimpmypaws



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-10
Updated: 2013-03-10
Packaged: 2017-12-04 22:15:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/715694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pimpmypaws/pseuds/pimpmypaws
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is sick and John takes care of him. Just a fluffy little bit of established relationship h/c.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Making It Better

It was interesting, Sherlock mused, that while he distinctly remembered having appendicitis as a teenager, being stabbed in the arm on a case, and breaking his leg in a rather embarrassing non-case related incident, the pain of those experiences didn’t seem to come close to his current headache. Logically, being shot must certainly have been one of the most painful things he had ever experienced, but the pressure that had been slowly building behind his eyes for days was blocking out any concrete memories. He rolled over on the sofa and pulled his dressing gown tighter around his thin frame. He grimaced as the new position made his nose start running again and grabbed behind him for the box of tissues he’d left on the armrest.

The flat was blessedly and unusually silent. Sherlock had briefly attempted to read but found that the glossy pages of the magazine hurt his eyes to look at. His phone was worse and the tone that sounded with every text was insufferable. Boredom had settled in as soon as he realized there was effectively nothing he could do without the pain flaring up to a level where he ceased to function. Even the boredom was dulled by the pain, though, and he barely registered it now.

He would usually be loathe to ask for help in this situation, but since John had left for work that morning the pain had become so bad that he was now unable to stand. He could localize the pressure to his sinuses, the pain concentrating between his eyes, and it seemed to him that if he could just blow his nose enough the pressure would have to ease. It had been days, though, with no relief. Earlier he’d briefly considered decapitation as a reasonable course of action, but that would have been difficult without getting off the sofa. He pressed his hand against his forehead and dug his fingers into the bridge of his nose, a pathetic attempt at rubbing the pain away.

John would be home soon. He focused on that thought and pressed his face against the cushions on the back of the sofa to block out the light filtering through his closed eyelids. He knew he was dribbling on the sofa but couldn’t bring himself to care.

It seemed an eternity before he heard the front door open and John’s slow footsteps ascending the stairs. Sherlock didn’t move as he heard John enter the flat. His mind felt not only sluggish, but as though it had stopped completely. He didn’t realize John had approached him until he felt a hand on his shoulder. 

“Sherlock?” John asked. His worry was clear in his voice.

Sherlock slitted his eyes open. Briefly he contemplated lying about his state or at least putting up a brave face, but it was impossible. The quickest route to relief was through John. Physically, he was sure he would survive with his illness, but mentally he was incapable of facing another day like this.

“I need painkillers,” he said. He waved an arm at the mess of tissues on the floor beside him where he’d missed the bin. “And possibly some antibiotics.”

John’s grip on his shoulder tightened. “It’s worse than this morning?” He asked.

Sherlock nodded. “Which was worse than last night, which was worse than the day before that.”

There was silence again and John straightened up. Sherlock rolled over slightly to watch as his friend picked up the tissues on the floor. He disposed of them in the kitchen rubbish bin and returned to the sofa with a glass of water. He sat down beside Sherlock, whose thin body allowed him plenty of room.

“You haven’t moved all day, have you?” John asked, handing the water to Sherlock, who blearily attempted to sit up. As soon as he raised his head the pain shot up but he persevered, knowing it would fade again as he settled.

Sherlock took the glass and shook his head. “I made it to the bathroom twice.”

He drained the glass, trying to move his head as little as possible while he did so, and reached for another tissue. He’d been through two boxes already today. John laid a hand across his forehead and Sherlock gave him a withering look.

“You know that’s hardly accurate,” he said around the tissue he had pressed to his nose.

“You probably have a sinus infection,” John replied, placing his fingers on either side of Sherlock’s neck and rubbing in a soothing way, although he was actually feeling for swollen lymph nodes.

Usually Sherlock would have enjoyed the touch of John’s skilled fingers, but his skin prickled with oversensitivity. It wasn’t pain exactly, just a feeling of being all too aware of every little touch. He could feel every place his pajamas touched his body and the roughness of his socks against his ankles was distinctly uncomfortable.

“Make it better,” he mumbled, letting his eyes slide closed again. He heard John laugh quietly before his weight lifted from the sofa. Sherlock opened his eyes again.

John smiled down at him. “I’m just going to go down to the chemist quickly,” he said. “You’ll be sorted out in no time.”

“I would appreciate if you would hurry,” Sherlock said as John retreated down the stairs. He slid back down the sofa until he was laying with his head on the armrest. Any change in position sent his head throbbing. It seemed almost safer to choose a position and stick with it.

John was true to his word and returned to the flat in less than fifteen minutes holding a white paper bag in his hand. He disappeared into the kitchen before kneeling at Sherlock’s side with another glass of water and two pill bottles.

“Augmentin for the infection,” he explained. “And tramadol for the pain.”

Sherlock nodded and took the proffered pills. “Thank you,” he said, truly meaning it. He swallowed the pills quickly and drank the second glass of water. He hadn’t had anything to drink all day. While his body was used to dehydration, it wasn’t used to losing so much moisture into tissues.

“Antibiotics for fourteen days,” John said, taking the empty glass back from Sherlock. “And try not to abuse the painkillers. Don’t take them all in one go, because I won’t prescribe you any more.”

Sherlock smirked at that and settled back against the arm of the couch, hoping the medication would work quickly. “Ah, yes, you would,” he said. He didn’t even have to look to know that John was nodding in grudging agreement.

John sighed and his eyes flicked towards the overflowing bin. While Sherlock closed his eyes again, he delicately grabbed the lip of the bin and headed off to empty it. Sherlock tipped his head back against the arm of the couch, wincing inwardly at the pain the movement produced, and tried to think of the known side effects of the medications John had brought him. He found that he couldn’t remember anything at all about the antibiotic.

He startled at John’s hand returning to his shoulder. His eyes snapped opened and he groaned slightly at his own movement. Sniffling, he reached for another tissue.

“Sorry,” John said quietly. He held up the bin and Sherlock deposited the tissue in it before reaching for another and blowing his nose loudly.

“You should sleep upstairs tonight,” Sherlock said, shifting his position so John could perch next to him once again. His voice was thick, every word making him uncomfortable about how very obvious his illness was. “I’ll keep you awake.”

John nodded and offered a weak smile. “And if it’s all the same, I don’t really want to sleep with you dribbling snot on me all night again.”

Sherlock huffed out a laugh. “I already apologized for that.” 

He pushed himself up to a sitting position, fighting back the ridiculous urge to whimper at the shot of pain through his skull. He wished it wasn’t ridiculous to want the painkillers to become effective already. Unable to ignore the feeling entirely, he brought his hands up to rub at his temples, only to hit John’s hands which were on their way to do the same thing.

“No, let me,” John said. He smiled as Sherlock relaxed against him as his fingers gently circled Sherlock’s temples. “Do you want to go to bed?”

“No.” Sherlock’s deep voice rumbled. He sought John’s gaze and held it for a moment. It had been a long time since he had allowed anyone to take care of him. If it had been anyone but John he would feel humiliation at his body’s weakness, but John’s eyes were kind and gentle. “I’ve been trying to read this article on bees all day. Would you mind…” he paused. “Would you mind reading it to me?”

Without waiting for an answer, Sherlock moved again so he was sitting upright against the back of the sofa. The article in question was sitting on the table behind the armrest and he handed it to John, who in return handed Sherlock another tissue. Sherlock mumbled an apology as he blew his nose loudly again.

They shifted positions on the sofa until Sherlock could reach the tissue box and the bin without having to move, and John sat pressed up against his side. John tucked his head against Sherlock’s shoulder, leaning his weight into the sick man, the magazine held up in one hand and the other falling onto Sherlock’s thigh. His light voice began to read, interrupted only occasionally by more nose blowing, until he glanced over to see that Sherlock’s eyes had drifted shut again. 

“Sherlock?” He said as gently as possible. When there was no response, John closed the magazine quietly and lay it aside.

It wasn’t difficult to maneuver them both into more comfortable positions. Sherlock grumbled sleepily at being made to move, but relaxed as his head fell onto John’s chest. His body sank slightly into the space behind the cushions and he flung an arm out over John, clutching onto him. Hugged on one side by soft material and on the other by the warm body of his most intimate companion, Sherlock forgot the throbbing in his temples and drifted off. 

John wrapped his arms around the sleeping man’s shoulders and glanced back at the window. The light in the sky showed that it was only early evening. He smiled to himself as he thought of the paperwork he had meant to complete that night, then looked down at the top of Sherlock’s head, knowing he wouldn’t leave Sherlock for the world.


End file.
